Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long-Legged Beasties

In my heart every day is Halloween. My husband will never understand my obsession with all things macabre, but I'm drawn to it. For a long time, I felt the need to hide my love for horror films and books, ashamed that amongst my more literary minded colleagues, my interests were amateurish. I feared they would flog me with Keats, snicker at me from behind their copies of Ulysses, and preach about the greater joys of reading Chaucer in one's spare time.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't as if I've sequestered myself into one small area of all literary-dom with no intent of ever venturing outside, but this girl can't deny that she loves to be scared. Thank God for Henry James, and Bram Stoker, for Edgar Allen Poe and Shirley Jackson, for H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King.

And so for years, I've been rather quiet about loving all things that go bump in the night. Most certainly I never shared my penchant for the Gothic with my writer colleagues, and I most certainly did not write any speculative fiction for submission to any of my critique groups or writing workshops.

Then I started to get bored. Started even to dislike what I was writing. I stumbled across Shimmer Magazine by complete chance and began reading. When I was finished, my flesh crawled. It was exactly the feeling that I had been missing.

Slowly, I began to seek out a network of writers and magazines--writers and magazines who are producing NOW--and started researching. Check out Aaron Polson if you have some time and are a fan of the genre. After many hours devoted to wrapping up my Capstone, I'm letting myself say it loud and say it proud. I'm writing horror, dammit.

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On Miscarriage

We were on our way to a wedding when it happened. The doctor's had told us that bleeding was common, that I was still very early and not to worry. I told myself that I wouldn't write about it. Ever since it happened, I swore up and down that I wouldn't; swore that I wouldn't even mention it outside of family and a small circle of friends who make up my support system.

I feel like I've done a good job, feel that I've managed to overcome it. Maybe not forget that it happened altogether, but there are days that go by where I don't think about it, and that is a small blessing in itself. Because when I do think about it, I'm back in the July heat in that squalid South Carolina bathroom, back in that backwoods urgent care facility while a doctor pokes and prods at the rawest part of me and tells me "You're fine. There's nothing there."

And then there are days like today. Where all of sudden it's there again in all of its nightmarish ferocity, threatening to tear me open from the inside out. It was a simple mistake, I'm sure. They probably just forgot to remove my name from a mailing list.

From my doctor this morning came a reminder email to schedule my 6 month ultrasound. As of Halloween, I would have known the sex of the baby I lost in July. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've continued to keep count of the days until deadlines like this. Halloween for the sex; February for my due date. Of course, this counting had become largely subconscious, like blinking or breathing, but largely, I'd let myself start to heal.

Seeing this reminder of the child I lost ripped through me like a cold wind. Had it lived, I'd have been showing by now. Maybe even picked out a name, started decorating a nursery. The email, however good the intentions were, left me reelilng and violently angry.

Miscarriage is common amongst first and early pregnancy, and while I may feel that my story is unique, that no other woman could have possibly experienced the type of grief that I had, it simply isn't true. Because there are so many other women who have shared my pain. I wanted my doctor to understand being part of a larger statistic doesn't invalidate this hurt, shouldn't allow such callousness on his office's part. I wish I could say this is the first time they've made such a mistake, but it isn't. During a follow up visit, I was asked how far along I was despite my chart that clearly indicated that the pregnancy had ended.

I was afraid, ashamed even, of people knowing, of their questioning why I would share such intimate information. But now, I feel a need to not hide it in the dark any more. It happened. It cannot be taken back. Not for me and not for thousands of other women.

I cannot forget. No matter how hard I try. No matter what I do to distract myself the memory is ever present, an indelible part of me that cannot be removed as easily as deletion from a mailing list.

And even though it hurt, I realized I don't want to forget. Not completely.

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Grocery Guilt

Publix is my favorite grocery store. Maybe because it smells like bread all of the time. Maybe because it's the freshest produce I can find since Acworth has never heard of Whole Foods. Whatever the reason, I love doing my grocery shopping there. Except for one thing.

Normally I'm not a buggy shopper, (and yes, I call it a buggy, not a cart. I live in the South, dammit), but it's hard to fit one of those giant packages of toilet paper in one of those itty, bitty baskets, so today, I had a buggy.

I have a certain tactic to checking out with a buggy. I'll scout the checkers, looking for the one that doesn't have a bagger. You see, Publix has a policy that I'm convinced is tatooed across the backs of every employee. CARRYOUT SERVICE IS REQUIRED FOR BUGGY SHOPPERS.

So when I have a buggy, I pray that I can pay for my items and get out of the store without someone chirping, "Can I help you to your car?"

Now don't get me wrong, it's a wonderful service, but it makes me more uncomfortable than watching a dog get friendly with a stranger's leg.

If I say yes, I cannot abide the awkward silences or mundane conversations about the weather that surely come along with carryout service. Not to mention the inordinate amount of guilt I feel watching some poor soul chuck 50 pounds of groceries into my trunk in 100 degree Georgia heat.

Even worse is when I say no. Then I feel like I may as well have just murdered their kitten. Like I'm the only thing that's getting them through their work day, and since I said no, what, really, is the point in living any more?

You aren't supposed to tip them, but I always feel compelled to give them something. A hug would be too much, a handshake too formal. Last time, I gave a friendly punch on the shoulder and a "Thanks, dude." I don't think the nice, 55 year-old gentleman who helped me to my car appreciated the gesture.

So today, when I wheeled my buggy through a bagger free line, I almost cried with happiness at the possibility of getting out of there without the following interchange.

"Help you to your car?"

"Oh, no thanks. I'm good." *CRINGE*

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. Thanks though!" **DOUBLE CRINGE**

OH GOD THE FEELINGS OF GUILT AND SHAME!!!

I was almost scot-free, was rolling on out through the automatic doors, when an employee stopped me, placed a hand on my buggy, and asked the question.

And in my head, I was all "NO, NO, NO. Do not ask me that. I'll have to be honest with you and break your heart. WHY do you have to make me feel like a complete asshole?"

I politely refused, and she looked at my like I was crazy.

And then it dawned on me. Maybe I AM the crazy one. After all, who doesn't want the task of unloading one's groceries foisted off onto some other poor, hapless soul?

Maybe I'm just that one anti-social moron who thinks it's odd and squirmy. Am I so much a part of the self-service generation that I have forgotten--nay, even delegated to the purgatory of awkardness--the luxury of full service??!

Once upon a time, there were people waiting to pump our gas, wash our cars, answer our questions over the telephone when we had them.

All of which got me thinking about technology and the world we live in. I've always been one of those people who would rather deal with a machine. If I can look it up on the internet instead of actually interacting with another person, you can count me in. It's one of those weird nueroses I have. You know, the fear that someone may think you're stupid after conversating with you for less than five minutes?

Anyway, I've recently actually needed to speak with a living, breathing, flesh and blood person, and all I've gotten was a machine. The absolute anger and frustration over not being able to get in touch with anyone was enough to have me running around my house like a hamster in one of those freaking balls that are supposed to get them some exercise. Whoever heard of a hamster exercising anyway?

So maybe next time, I'll slow down a little and let the nice bagger take my groceries for me. Maybe I'll even try a little conversation.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time I call my doctor's office, someone will answer. But I doubt it.

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An Impasse

I truly envy those people who can sit at their computers, let their fingers fly over their keyboards, and even freaking smile while they clatter out some new plot developement on whatever manuscript on which they are currently working.

I am not one of those writers. Every time I reach the end of a page, and my cursor shifts to the next, I want to shout, dance, writhe around on the floor in the kind of supreme ecstasy reserved for defloration rituals in primitive tribes. Quite frankly, when I reach the end of a page, I'm drained, tired, and feeling rather ho-hum about what I've just written.

But then there are times when I'm humming along, lost for just the briefest of moments in that world, and I'm not writing anymore, but actually seeing what's happening unfold before me, and I want to cry at how wonderful it all is and jump up and kiss the first person I see, even if it is the zit-infested barrista telling me my coffee is up. Because those moments--the dream as John Gardner calls it--are so few and far between for me that I sometimes wonder if I'm kidding myself.

I'm coming to the belief that writers are the ultimate narcissists. We put our words, our blood to paper. We hoard them, pick away at them until they are perfect before we thrust them before the world. "See?  See what I've done?" we ask.

And then we wait in agony for not just anyone, but someone with some effing power to tell us, "Yes. We love it. Yes. We will publish it." The ultimate validation, the end result of all that longing for someone to just tell us that they like us, that we are good.

For the briefest of moments, it is enough to keep us going, and then the darkness falls down around us again because we are once more faced with the blinking cursor on the blank page and the thought, What if I can't do it again? What if they made a mistake, and I'm terrible?

And oh, god, it becomes so hard to keep going, to lose yourself in the pleasure of writing because the vanity and the pride and all of those terrible things the Bible warns you about begin to sing a terrible chorus of failure in your head, and you are wondering as the words begin to stutter out of you if they are any good, and who will love them, or, even worse, who will roll their eyes and shudder before tossing what you've spent months of your life working on into the nearest waste basket.

And every writing teacher, or instructional writing text you've ever read preaches to not let that critic get in the way, but it is always the critic to whom you write, always her voice that keeps you from writing the next sentence, which you know without a doubt, will be the most atrocious string of words ever committed to paper.

When you are a perfectionist, the hardest thing to do is let down that wall and just do it.

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There is a light

There's a light at the end of the tunnel; however, every time I hear the phrase "there's a light," my mind automatically goes to Rocky Horror Picture Show and the light over at the Frankenstein place, and then eventually I'm singing Janet's part in "Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me" and thinking how weird it is that Rocky went on to be that guy in Coach.

The previous paragraph is fairly representative of the state of my mind over the past few weeks.  After a year of working and worrying over the yearbook, the distribution/dedication ceremony came and went, and it feels strange to come home at night with no major event to plan.  Not that I'm saying that I'm ready to start all over--trust me, I'll very much enjoy my break--but after so many months of insanity, I'm not sure I remember how to function normally.  There are still things to take care of (grading, money issues, etc...), but the bulk of the work is done, and I couldn't be prouder of what my staff accomplished this year. 

I'm in a holding pattern for grad school right now  and am waiting for the summer semester to begin.  My Capstone is officially underway, and while I should have spent the past few months outlining my novel, I've only managed to write three quarters of the second draft of a short story.  I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that by this December, I should have the majority of a novel written.  It's daunting to think of the amount of work to be accomplished within the coming months, but while I have major butterflies in my tummy, there's a larger part of me that's fairly panting after the opportunity to get this thing started.

Looks like I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo's Summer Camp as a method of motivation and support.  If you've never heard of NaNo, and you're an aspiring writer, you should check it out. 

Now, I'm off to read the newest novel I downloaded to my brand new Kindle.

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Under Pressure

When I was little, a go-to staple in our house was chicken and dumplings.  There were no cutting corners according to my mother, so she would haul out the pressure cooker in preparation of cooking the chicken to just the right degree of fall apart when it hits your fork.  She would keep that pressure cooker going all day; the silver and black knob at the top destined to start its rattling and hissing at any given second, indicating the time to pull the chicken for shredding and drop the dumplings for stewing in the broth.  My mouth waters just thinking about it. 

But I'm not here to talk about food.  All around me, there are babies.  Babies galore.  Friends, acquaintances, people I just met in line at Dunkin' Donuts have all had the their lives graced by the blessed presence of an infant.  In perfect honesty, I'm the odd woman out. 

While I feel, nor do I wish to impart, any pressure to get a little one cooking inside of me, there is a distinct feeling of being inside of that pressure cooker my momma loved.  Only instead of dumplings, the desired product is an equally squishable baby.  There are far too many people out there who will tell me that I'm still a baby myself and that I ought to learn more of the world before bringing more life into it, but as thirty marches ever closer, I find myself sweating in the presence of what I can only describe is baby fever. 

I want kids.  My husband wants kids.  Some may call us equally matched on that front, but as the "right time" comes for scores of other couples, I can't help but feel the proverbial clock ticking, and it's not such a distant clock anymore.  I'm watching people younger than me by significant leaps announce the sex of their babies as I type this, and in the face of the pressure, I'm sweating.  Just like those dumplings my momma dumped inside of that bath of broth so many years ago. 

Have I accomplished all I wanted to accomplish by this time in my life?  Can we afford this?  How will this change me?  Change us? 

It's exhilirating.  It's scary.  The realm of emotions coursing through me right now is hard to describe.  There hasn't been much else in life that has been so confusing, frightening, and exciting simultaneously.  Unless you count the first time I rode a roller coaster.  What a terrible comparison.  That alone shows my ignorance. 

Right now I'm deep inside that pressure cooker, and David Bowie and Queen are crooning in my ear.  It's hot in here. 

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An Insight Into The Shining

I'm starting to understand Jack Torrance's--you know "All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy, The Shining, etc...--little side trip to crazy town.  Excessive amounts of snow will do that to a person. 

On Sunday night, 6 inches of snow fell.  In Georgia.  Where the most snow we ever see is a powder sugar like dusting of flurries that are gone the next day.  And we all ooh and ahh over how pretty it is, and the neighborhood kids go out and destroy the beauty while trying take pack together the saddest little snowman you have ever seen. 

But Snowmageddon 2011 was different.  We knew it was coming.  It was all the local weather stations could talk about for a week in advance.  Justin and I ventured out to Wal-Mart on Saturday, and it was the biggest mistake of my life.  Have you ever been charged by a veritable wildebeest of a woman because she thinks you are grabbing the very last package of powdered donuts, when actually you are grabbing a loaf of Sara Lee's 45 Calories and Delightful Multigrain Bread?  The vision still haunts me. 

Anyway, we have been stuck in the house for the past four days, and there is no end/thaw in sight.  If I don't get out of this house soon, there is guaranteed to be an absolute storm of hormonal shouting, crying, and whining.  If I have to eat ONE more sandwich, I might have a little come to Jesus up at Hillshire Farms.  Of course they would put just the right amount of meat in the container that guarantees if I don't consume it in three-four days, it WILL go bad, and I'll curse myself for wasting money.  You remember that massive comissary in The Shining?  I feel like that's the only type of food I have in my house.  That of the canned and frozen variety.  I DESIRE FRESH VEGETABLES!!  And a hamburger from Five Guys. 

Thank GOD there was enough coffee and creamer and Sweet N' Low to get us through. 

All in all, I'm feeling rather dour.  My students are almost a week behind, and while sleeping in is great, making up for lost time is not so great.  Every time I look at the vast expanse of white outside of my window,  I feel like crying.  This Georgia girl is not equipped to handle the winter months.  Period.   Actual accumulated snow and ice-coated roads that stick around for a few days are another story.  Peaches don't thrive in ice, ya'll. 

Let's not even get started on my motivation.  I started out strong.  I finished a short story and submitted it to Glimmer Train.  Hooray!  But after a winter walk with my husband, a fantastic new story idea came to me, and instead of rushing right into the house and getting to work, I've done everything but work on it.  Maybe today??  Doubtful. 

Oh. My. God.  I just looked out the window.  It's snowing again.  Thank goodness we don't keep an axe in the house.  And if I start seeing creepy little twin girls, I promise to call someone.

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